Fairy Tales

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This intro appears, I believe, in the introduction of every book in Datlow and Windling's Fairy Tale Series, as well as their short story fairy tale anthologies.

My original post had a long, rambling narrative of why I love fairy tales that I decided to reserve for a blog post, or maybe post here later with snips and edits.


Do you have a certain fairy tale (or folk tale) that you adore, after all these years? Or maybe you've heard one more recently that you hadn't heard as a kid. Do you prefer the sanitized "Disney-fied" versions, with happily-ever-afters, or do you enjoy the more darker, bloodier, and often violent versions? Do you like any of the TV shows or movies based on old tales?

*****

Growing up, I had two favorites. I was first introduced to the Sleeping Beauty through Disney. Back then, I think it was less about the story itself, and more about wishing I could live in the middle of the forest and dance around with squirrels and bunnies. And I liked the songs...I can still sing all of them from memory now.

In the years since I first wore out my VHS copy of the Disney movie, I discovered Tchaikovsky's ballet. I have yet to see the ballet performed live, but oh, the music is beautiful. I've also picked up more "adult" versions of the story, and was surprised at the time to learn that, no, the beautiful princess wasn't awakened by True Love's Kiss (TM) in the original tale, but by twin babies she'd given birth to after the "charming" prince got all up on that while she was unconscious. Yikes. I also really enjoyed Anne Rice's Beauty trilogy, which is a hardcore BDSM adaptation.



My other favorite? East of the Sun and West of the Moon. It's a Norwegian tale that I can remember my mom reading aloud to us as a kid... I think I was first attracted to it because, even though she causes the initial problem, it's the girl who takes the journey to save the prince. (there are also flavors of Psyche and Cupid from Roman mythology.)

I haven't seen quite as many adaptations of this one, although East by Edith Patou, and Ice by Sarah Beth Durst are on my to-read list.

 

Not exactly a fairy tale; but I'm fascinated by various versions of the King Arthur story.

 

Why? On both counts.

Have you read The Mists of Avalon, by chance? One of my favorite books...I didn't care much for the TV miniseries, though (probably because I loved the book so much.) I was just thinking that I'd like to reread that soon.

 

I have the set in hardback. It's probably due for a reread.

 

"Pop" fairy tales-- those "modified" or "edited" for children's consumption in Victorian or Edwardian England, or in America in the early 20th century, have never held much interest for me. And all the more so when the same stories are Disnified-- I've never had much taste for their bubblegum princess pablum.

I thought the original, unexpurgated Grimm's was interesting, but while it interested me, it didn't grab me.

I find that I much prefer more serious legends to folk tales: the myths of the ancient world, and that sort of thing. Though I confess that after a brief flirtation with it in childhood, Greek myth never did much for me: a little too literarily anemic for me, with the exception of the Iliad and Odyssey, and even those.... I was always a big fan of the Norse Eddas, and of the Mabinogion (the central collection of Welsh mythology), and the ancient sagas of the Irish (Lebhor Gabhala na hEreinn, the CuChulainn cycle, the Fenian cycle). Some of the various Native American legends also I find fascinating, especially the Navajo, Sioux, and Inuit.

Some of the Russian folktales are fun. The legends of the bogatyri and the boyars (their versions of demigods and knights), the stories of witches like Baba Yaga, with her moving house. They were never a passion for me, though I enjoyed reading them. Same with the Chinese folktales, and Indian folktales.

I like the Arthurian legends, but I dislike their Frenchified later medieval form, the stuff done by Chretien de Troyes and his ilk, which too many of the modern retellings tend to draw upon, Malory included. Even Tolkien's lovely Fall of Arthur, though stunning poetry, and much more Saxon-influenced than most Arthurian stuff, draws a bit too heavily for my tastes on the French influenced retellings. T.H. White wrote beautiful books, but though his characters are wonderful, they just don't do it for me. To my mind, the best retelling I have seen is probably Hawk of May and its two sequels, by Gillian Bradshaw. Mary Stewart's books are also nice, but aren't my favorite. I wanted to like The Mists of Avalon, very very much. But I don't. It just felt incredibly heavy-handed to me, a very broad and unsubtle early second-wave feminist allegory. Though it is not, perhaps, truly a retelling of the Arthur legends, per se, I loved Susan Cooper's YA pentalogy The Dark Is Rising, which is heavily Arthurian in influence and derivation of content. And of course, there are probably a thousand other retellings and derivations out there....

I don't include Midrash and the set of classical Jewish legends and folklore, though I love them dearly and with great passion, because for me, they're a little more important than just stories.

 

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LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE
by: James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)​

INSCRIBED WITH ALL FAITH AND AFFECTION

To all the little children: -- The happy ones; and sad ones;
The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones;
The good ones -- Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones.

ITTLE Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,--
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout:--
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,--
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

 

I loved that trilogy! I picked it up just because it was Anne Rice, did not realize what I was in for...
Luckily my gf at the time enjoyed it to. It lead to some fun nights if I left her alone to read a few chapters.

I'm a big fan of people rewriting well known fairy tales.
Just last night I finished watching the final episode of season 2 of Once Upon a Time, can't wait until season 3 is released. I like the way Snow White was rewritten into a huntress, stalking the Enchanted Forest.

One of my friends owns a big book of the original Brothers Grimm tales. She's let me borrow it a few times and I enjoy those as well.

 

Yeah...I like the original stories better than the Disney ones. So much cooler.

I've read some of the original ones and the Little Mermaid Sea Foam one is what I remember the most. I thought it was a cooler ending. Jane Austen annoys me because they always seem to end in Marriage....like early disney.

I'll still sing the songs though.

 

I don't know if it's considered a fairy tale, but I loved Der Struwwelpeter in school, particularly "Die Geschichte vom Daumenlutscher". Good stuff, and definitely not Disney-fied.

 

No fairies - but a sense of otherworld given the characters who have voices -
Oscar Wilde
The Nightingale and the Rose
'She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,' cried the young Student; 'but in all my garden there is no red rose.'
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
'No red rose in all my garden!' he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. 'Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.'
'Here at last is a true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his lace like pale Ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.'
'The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,' murmured the young Student, 'and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.'
'Here indeed is the true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'What I sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, 'or can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.'

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'The musicians will sit in their gallery,' said the young Student, 'and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her;' and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
'Why is he weeping?' asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
'Why, indeed?' said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
'Why, indeed?' whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
'He is weeping for a red rose,' said the Nightingale.
'For a red rose!' they cried; 'how very ridiculous!' and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'
But the Tree shook its head.
'My roses are white,' it answered; 'as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'

< 3 >​

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'
But the Tree shook its head.
'My roses are yellow,' it answered; 'as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.
'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'
But the Tree shook its head.
'My roses are red,' it answered, 'as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.'
'One red rose is all I want,' cried the Nightingale, 'only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?'
'There is a way,' answered the Tree; 'but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.'
'Tell it to me,' said the Nightingale, 'I am not afraid.'
'If you want a red rose,' said the Tree, 'you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.'

< 4 >​

'Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the Nightingale, 'and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?'
So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
'Be happy,' cried the Nightingale, 'be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.'
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
'Sing me one last song,' he whispered; 'I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.'
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.

< 5 >​

When she had finished her song the Student got lip, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
'She has form,' he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - 'that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.' And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Yale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

< 6 >​

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

< 7 >​

'Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; 'here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
'You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.'
But the girl frowned.
'I am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered; 'and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.'
'Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
'Ungrateful!' said the girl. 'I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
'What a silly thing Love is,' said the Student as he walked away. 'It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.'

< 8 >​

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

 

I cannot disagree, and in fact, I would have been more heated. I wrote my undergrad lit thesis on Tolkien, and am dearly devoted to his works, almost above any other author.

I do think he would loathe what Peter Jackson wrought with his books. He might have put up with it for the money, as he didn't see the greatest profits from his works until quite late in his life; but he would've hated having to do it.

Lord knows I certainly abhorred the films. I thought that with the exception of Ian McKellan, they were miserably miscast, and the screenplay absolutely gutted the books, often with very little rhyme or reason. In maximizing the screen time of the epic battles, they removed much character development, and tremendous nuances of artful language and lore, including, of course, stripping out all the poetry from the books. Sure, the visuals were lovely, but if all I wanted were visuals, I would've gone to see an IMAX movie about New Zealand.

The whole notion that film must differ greatly from books, and any serious work of literature must be radically altered to suit the screen I think is a deeply flawed idea. Lord of the Rings is one of the most popular, widely-read books of all time: I think movies that captured Tolkien's work better would have done just fine, not lacked for audience at all. But instead, it was just vaguely Tolkien-flavored eye candy, without any real substance.

I remember just before the first movie came out, I read an interview with Peter Jackson where he proudly stated that he had kept a copy of Lord of the Rings in his pocket through the entire shoot. When I came out of the movie, cursing his name, I realized that to be fair, he had never actually claimed he read the book, only that he carried it around. But if he did read it-- which I doubt-- he certainly didn't understand it. Nobody who got Tolkien would ever have produced those horrendous movies.

 

I have never seen the Lord of the Rings movies, so I don't know how "Irish" they really are.

A lot of Americans assume that jigs and reels are necessarily Irish or Scottish. They are not!

The jig, just for example, came out of 16th century England.

The Celtic musical traditions existed in a much larger context of hundreds of years of British Isles traditional music, which is just as native to Yorkshire or Surrey as it is to Galway.

Traditional dance music "sounds Irish" because most people (I mean, Americans) never hear this kind of music outside of an explicitly Irish cultural context.

I see that the quote above is from the Guardian, which means either that the LOTR movies are dripping with shamrocks and leprechauns, or that deep ignorance of traditional British Isles music exists even among critics in the British Isles.

 

Not a fairy story - but a thought on the transference from paper onto the screen.
Last week we saw Hercule Poirot The Final Curtain - played by David Suchet for is it really almost a quarter of a century?
Interestingly, the Christie estate had final say over who would be playing the part of this little Belgian detective. The story was altered slightly, as it had no murderer in this last book - but I should think that had to be with permission of the estate.
Perhaps thats where Tolkien let himself down. He should have had Christie style contracts so that those who loved him could see his vision protected long after the last light dimmed from his eyes.
Poirot's Last Case, ITV, review - Telegraph